


straying, tumbling sleeves

by bobtheacorn



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Desolation of Smaug, Gen, somebody needs stitches and bilbo faints bc he's like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-20 10:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9487391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobtheacorn/pseuds/bobtheacorn
Summary: His coat sleeve is torn from wrist to elbow - either snagged by a branch, or by an Orc's blade, he dares not wonder which - and now that he has a moment of peace, Bilbo decides to mend it.





	

Being that they're safe from Orcs for now, Thorin allows them the comfort of a fire the night they leave the eyrie.  It's hardly dusk when they stop to make camp along the river between two small hills, deep blue shadows blotting out the orange light as the sun dips into the West.  In the hastening dark, the Dwarves take proper stock of their belongings, sorting out what survived the previous night's battle and their desperate flight through the Misty Mountains.

To be frank, it's not very much.

Fili and Kili disperse almost at once with their uncle's leave, notching bows and counting their arrows, so the Company might have something to eat.  Gloin hefts an axe and goes with Dori and Nori to acquire some decent firewood from a thicket nearby (and perhaps to flush something out of hiding for their amiable hunters).  The rest remain behind to do Oin's bidding as he fusses about those who are injured and sends those who are not - save Gandalf - off to fetch water and set up camp.  The Wizard stands apart from them for a time, puffing his pipe and gazing thoughtfully toward the East.  Thorin is, against his choice, relieved of stomping about the camp and issuing orders so that Oin can tend to his wounds first.

Layer upon disgruntled layer of heavy clothes and guards are shed on the ground at Thorin's feet, and Bilbo turns away after only a glimpse of the darkly stained bandages, wrapping Thorin sternum to waist.  The sight of blood -  _ the thought of unforgiving jaws closing around the Dwarf's chest _ \- is enough to make the Hobbit's stomach flop about unpleasantly, and his heart feels weak.  Within the hour, there are two strong blazes going: one for boiling strips of cloth for bandages and ointments, and the other for, as luck would have it, rabbit stew.

Thorin's nephews return triumphant with a string of the small, limp creatures between, and Bilbo is too tender, despite his recent deeds, to watch this, either.  Instead, he hunkers down beside Oin's fire with his back to the others, and busies himself with something not wholly unrelated to skinning rabbits.  His coat sleeve is torn from wrist to elbow - either snagged by a branch, or by an Orc's blade, he dares not wonder which - and now that he has a moment of peace, Bilbo decides to mend it.  Luckily, Ori managed to keep a hold of his own pack, and most of it's contents; the young Dwarf proffers him not only a needle, but a full sewing kit with plenty of thread and scraps of fabric (but alas! no buttons to spare).

Of course the Hobbit's peace does not last long.

Bifur is the first to notice him, sitting cross-legged with his coat folded in his lap and his sleeve held near his face, squinting in the firelight.

The Dwarf makes a gesture at the edge of Bilbo's vision and Bilbo pricks his thumb in surprise, startled by the movement.  He stifles a small cry, drops his coat sleeve with a jerk of his hand and puts his finger in his mouth, scowling.  A drop of blood wells on his tongue and for all his trouble Bilbo can scarcely decipher Bifur's low, inquiring rumbles and vague gestures.  It takes him a few moments to understand.  Bifur grunts in what Bilbo can only assume is Dwarvish, while the axe embedded in his forehead casts quite an ominous shadow across his face.  He brandishes his empty satchel once more, this time putting his hand inside it, and it's then that Bilbo sees the side has busted wide open and left a thready hole, through which Bifur's fingers waggle in trepidation.

"Oh!" Bilbo says, feeling foolish as he drops his hand and beckons for the satchel, "Of course!  Yes, let me see it."

Nodding vigorously, bowing and muttering in assumed thanks, Bifur drops it into Bilbo's waiting hand.  The fabric's heavier than Bilbo expects it to be, and the buckle of the shoulder strap clanks against the ground before he lifts it properly.  Mindful, this time, of the needle pinched between his fingers, Bilbo takes a look at the damage and determines that it isn't too extensive to fix.  He's certain there's a bit of fabric in Ori's kit that will cover the hole nicely, and sets the satchel aside to finish stitching up his sleeve.

He's hardly tied it off before Nori mossies over, and extra shirt thrown over his arm.

"Heard you was stitchin' up a few things, Master Burglar," the thief says without preamble, "Would you mind?"

Nori holds the shirt aloft for Bilbo to see; the long sleeve is coming free at the shoulder seam.  An easy enough fix, and Bilbo is too taken aback to refuse.

"Yes, well - No, I don't mind.  No trouble at all."

Before Bilbo knows what's happening, another Dwarf (and then another, and another) has come up to besiege him.  Clothing in desperate, sudden need of mending simply come right out of the woodwork; coats, socks, trousers, and the like, are eagerly shed and tossed about, dropped across his lap and over his shoulders when the pile begins to grow precarious.  Bilbo is lost beneath it all, frantically pulling straying, tumbling sleeves and shirt tails out of the fire's reach, trying to make himself heard over the cheerful rambling of the Dwarves.

"Here you are, burglar, a right fix that'll need."

"Got a sock here what needs a toe, Master Baggins.  Was worried I might lose it come winter!"

"'S just a wee hole, is all, but I'd not like it getting any bigger."

_ "Now really!" _  The Hobbit gasps _.  "See here!" _

Balin, last of all, lays his coat atop the pile, laughing and giving Bilbo's shoulder a firm pat as he departs, "There's a good laddie!"  Bilbo is left puffing and grumbling as he sorts through clothes that reek of Dwarf, and smoke, and pine, trying to assess what needs to be done.  He hadn't heard half the requests rolling one right into the other.  Ori at least sits down to help him, apologizing in his quiet, merry way, and the two of them make quick work of it, though they're only halfway finished by the time the stew is.

The Hobbit's hand is cramping badly and he's glad for the break, and the warm bowl in his hands, and for once not having to be deviled with a spoon.

-x-

Bilbo witnesses something curious over the rim of his bowl as he lifts it to his mouth, tuning out the humdrum of conversation as easily as he would on a Holiday in the Shire among his own relations (aside from the occasional belch and other rude outbursts, it's much the same to be honest, minus the disdainful stares of the Shackville-Baggins').  Bofur is dishing out a second helping of stew to Fili and Kili, and when Kili moves away, his bowl gripped in one hand, laughing at something or another that the toymaker has said, Bilbo notices Fili drops his own smile the moment Bofur's gaze is turned from him.  The blonde Dwarf signs something with his free hand, across his shoulder where only Kili will see, his expression stern as he holds his brother's gaze.

Kili scowls and barely shakes his head, makes a gesture of his own that Fili has to lean around Bofur's back to catch.  Bilbo sees it by chance - because he's being terribly rude, he imagines, his eyes glancing back and forth between the brothers - though he can hardly make sense of it.  It's not the first time he's seen a similar exchange among the Dwarves, but it is unmistakably odd for Fili and Kili, who are rarely coarse with anyone, let alone with each other.

Oin barks out an inquiry before Bilbo has the chance to contemplate it further,

"What's nothin' to fuss over?"

This rouses everyone's attention and the Company simmers down a bit.  Bilbo pointedly sticks his nose into his bowl.  Kili steps away from the fire, moving to hide in Dwalin's broad shadow with his shoulders drawn around his ears, and Bofur turns toward Oin, ladle half-raised to Fili's bowl, oblivious to the conversation that's been happening right around him.

"Say what, now?" the toymaker asks, befuddled.

Oin gestures at the lads, "I may need that ruddy horn for listening, but my eyes work just fine.  Which of you is it that's hurt, then?"

Fili outs his brother with a nod of his head.

"Cut his finger wide open skinning the rabbits and doesn't want the stitches."

"It's  _ fine," _ Kili blurts out, agitated.

"Let's see it, Kili," Thorin says, coming up by the fire.

He cuts a far less imposing figure against it without his coat and belt and heavy tunic, but Kili rises slowly, turns his face aside to hide a wince of pain as he pulls his right hand free of his glove.  Oin gets up and goes over to have a look, as well, while Thorin turns his nephew's hand toward the warm light.  Assured that much of the fuss has been reconciled, most of the Dwarves return to their talking; occasionally the din is broken up by Thorin's deep rumble, Kili holding fast to the assertion that he does not need the stitches, though Oin's beard wags with a knowing shake of his head.  Spooning himself a mouthful of stew right out of the ladle, Bofur tuts from across the fire once he espies the cut in question.

"Fancy stitchin', that'll need."

Kili glowers at him, but Thorin is inclined to agree, though he lets Kili take the rest of his supper first, after wrapping it.  Looking seriously put-upon, Kili takes the seat beside his brother and Fili smiles teasingly, nudging Kili with his elbow, "Might be your last meal, aye, Kili?  Old Oin's eyes aren't what they used to be, and in this poor light besides."

Kili mutters something dark in Dwarvish, which Dwalin cuffs him for, lightly.

"It's only a wee thing, laddie," the old warrior says, pinching his fingers close together to indicate the size of a needle, "Nothin' to quail over."

Bilbo and Kili both seem to be of the same opinion on that matter; the young Dwarf hardly has the stomach to eat anything else, gives the rest of his stew to Bombur and goes to get his finger stitched up with Fili right behind him.  The Hobbit decides fairly quick that he'll have nothing to do with that venture, as well.  Once he's helped with the washing up, and the rest of the stew's been put away for breakfast, Bilbo goes to fetch his sewing from where he set it aside, out of the way of stomping feet that might lose his thread and needle in the grass.

It's his luck, naturally, that the sewing kit is not where he left it.

Stooping and gingerly patting about in the dirt, feeling the length of the last shirt he was in the process of mending, Bilbo only finds the dangling thread, and no needle.  Throwing it down, he stands and looks about.  There's a fair number of the Dwarves crowded around Kili's upturned palm, gripped with some morbid curiosity - or else trying to lighten Kili's spirits with their usual cajoling.  Ori is among them, the pair of trousers he was mending before supper clutched in his hands as he cranes to see over Dori's shoulder.

Bilbo reluctantly eases over, clears his throat behind his fist to ask,

"Excuse me, Ori, but you haven't seen my - "

"Ah!  You're needle," Ori interrupts, pointing in between the others and regarding the Hobbit with another apologetic look, "Sorry, Bilbo - they got to yours first, is all.  These is the only needle's we've got on us, see, so they'll have to do the job."

"Sorry - the job?"

Without thinking, Bilbo turns to look.  Around Ori and Dori and Bofur, around Fili, who is holding his brother's hand tight and steady, and in the flickering dim light, he sees Oin slip his sewing needle cleanly through Kili's little finger just as if it were fabric.  The thread tugs at a small knot in Kili's skin, near his first knuckle, easing the wound closed.  It's about the length of Kili's whole little finger and deep; bright red painting his palm dark beneath the thread, a stark gleam of orange-white before Oin gives the needle another deft tug.

Bilbo croaks out, "Oh," and faints on the spot.

-x-

Nori is beaming, stooping over Bilbo's prone form, one hand on his bent knee as he waves the other, snapping his fingers before the Halfling's face.  Gaining no response, he straightens with a grand gesture.

"Ah, down he goes - pay up, Dori!  You too, Bofur, Bombur!"

Thorin sighs, "Someone revive Master Baggins," before the exchange of money can begin in earnest.  Bofur departs from the group to dunk a fresh bowl into the bucket of water sitting nearby.  Puffing his long pipe, Gandalf the Grey chooses this moment to come back among them.  He tuts softly at the sight of Bilbo Baggins sprawled in the grass, and Bofur ambles up beside them, water sloshing across the cuff of his sleeve.

"Nimble fingers and quick hands, he's got," the Dwarf says, with no small amount of endearment, "but quite a faint little heart to go with them."

"Aye," Gandalf says, chuckling; amused, even as he worries the bit of his pipe between his teeth, "He's a soft fellow.  But he'll be stoat as any Dwarf whenever we need him to be, you mark my words."

"Without a doubt," Bofur says, and upturns the bowl over Bilbo's head.

Bilbo comes up sputtering and gasping, feeling positively drowned as Bofur pulls him to his feet and walks him around the fire.  Kili has a good laugh, through the thick of Dwarves, that distracts him from the burning, trembling pain in his hand.  Wearily, Bilbo drags a hand down his face, pressing the water from his hair.

"Glad I could be of service..."


End file.
